"It is a psychological
phenomenon in the life of individuals as well as whole nations that the most
terrifying events of the past may be forgotten or displaced into the
subconscious mind. As if obliterated are impressions that should be
unforgettable. To uncover their vestiges and their distorted equivalents in
the physical life of peoples is a task not unlike that of overcoming amnesia
in a single person." - Immanuel Velikovsky, Worlds in Collision (1950)

"There never can be a man so
lost as one who is lost in the vast and intricate corridors of his own
lonely mind, where none may reach and none may save. There never was a man
so helpless as one who cannot remember." - Isaac Asimov, Pebble in the Sky (1950)

Preface

The concept of "A Collective
Amnesia" was first propounded as a serious working hypothesis in Worlds
in Collision.(1) It was conceived in an effort to reasonably explain
Mankind's inability to consciously remember its catastrophic experiences
resulting from the Earth's participation in a series of disastrous cosmic
perturbations.

The subject of a collective
amnesia is still a basically unexplored area of psychology requiring
penetrating research far beyond the immediate scope of the present paper.
The following essay is therefore primarily intended as a fascinating and
provocative case study of two fictional accounts involving
psychological trauma and the principle of collective amnesia. The
material offered here has been gleaned from the writings of Isaac Asimov, a
masterful science-fiction author and often harsh critic of Immanuel
Velikovsky.

Pebble in the Sky(2)

"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made. . ."

With these words of Robert
Browning running through his mind and the quietude of old age upon him,
sixty-two year old Joseph Schwartz is suddenly propelled, via a quirk of
nuclear physics, from the streets of Chicago tens of thousands of years into
the future.

When next he comes to his
senses, Schwartz finds himself on an Earth far removed from the Chicago of
1949 though he does not know it. The unrecognizable surroundings cause
Schwartz to doubt his sanity. He is psychologically disoriented and wanders
in search of familiarity.

After encountering some
strangers, Schwartz is taken to the city of Chica for supposed therapeutic
treatment. Once there, he is still unable to regain his mental
equilibrium. "Was his trouble amnesia, then? Were they treating him for
that? Was all this world normal and natural, while the world he thought he
remembered was only the fantasy of an amnesic brain? . . . Had he once been
a mathematician, in the days before his amnesia? (p. 52)"

With great effort,
Schwartz embarks upon his quest for the answer to his dilemma.
Persistence and tenacity enable him to learn that he is, in fact,
millennia in the future. But, the overwhelming thought causes panic
and vacillation and in a defensive reflex he feels "himself
shrinkingback to amnesia. (p. 102)" (emphasis added) An
introspective moment temporarily convinces him that he was not an
amnesiac but [indeed] "a man who had stumbled through time. (p.
106)" Nevertheless, doubt re­asserts itself and the time-slip theory
fades "in his mind; amnesia again. He was a criminal, perhaps−a
dangerous man, who must be watched. Maybe he had once been a high
official who could not be simply killed but must be tried.
Perhaps his amnesia was the method used by his uncon­scious to
escape the realization of some tremendous guilt. (p. 107)"
(emphasis added)

Schwartz's individual
plight, however, is nothing compared to the surrounding general
state of affairs. He has emerged in a world oblivious of its past
(except for an elite few) set amidst an inhabited universe which
finds an earthly source for its population to be an incredible
notion. Somewhere, in the remoteness of time, Mankind has
undergone an experience which wiped out and obscured the very memory
of its terrestrial origin. Mother Earth has become its own unwanted
stepchild.

A sprawling Galactic
Empire peopled with trillions of souls has reduced the Earth's
status to a mere "pebble in the sky," a "pigpen of a world" covered
with uninhabitable sectors of radioactivity. Moreover, orthodox
archaeology holds that Human types have evolved independently on
various planets and that the Earth is nought but a "brutish peasant
world" and "the least significant planet of the Empire."

In the extreme
minority is a small group of "mystics" and a lone archaeologist
named Arvardan who believe "that Humanity originated upon some
single planet and had radiated by degrees throughout the Galaxy. (p.
25)" Eventually, after much trial and tribulation, the
inter­secting paths of Schwartz and Arvardan converge and the truth
of the matter is revealed. Earth is indeed the planetary source of
universal Humankind but somewhere along the aeons this fact was
forgotten. A hint of what might have happened is given by
Schwartz when asked about his own time period

"We had an atomic
bomb. Uranium−and plutonium−I guess that's what made this world
radioactive. There must have been another war after all−after I
left . . . Atomic bombs. (p. 144) " The implication is obvious. The
devastation and horror of yet another World War -- this time nuclear
-- has not only transformed the Earth into a radio-active hulk but
somehow caused the terrestrial survivors as well as the interstellar
colonists to forget their own cultural and genetic heritage.

Since Earth is the one
inhabited radioactive world (p. 28) in the entire Galaxy, its
uniqueness can only be construed as strong evidence for its martial
guilt; and though this latter point is not elaborated upon nor even
explicitly mentioned, one is tempted to read into it the
psychological reason why an earthly origin was forgotten and the
planet held in such complete disdain. (1)

Interestingly, certain
earthly place names are retained in altered form Chica (Chicago),
Washenn (Washington), Senloo (St. Louis) ­while the correct
name for each of the various planets is remembered! (p. 101) Yet,
the very terrestrial origin of man is considered to be an outlandish
thought. Only the Society of Ancients−a terrestrial organization−believes that "Earth was at one time the sole home of Humanity"
and will be again. (p. 55) In an attempt to make its own prediction
come true, the Society of Ancients strives to decimate the entire
universal population through bacterial warfare. The blatant act of
vengeance is thwarted by Schwartz, however, who fulfills his
time-warped destiny and emerges as the ultimate descendant of the
archetypal hero.

Nightfall(4)

"If the stars should
appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and
adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city
of God?"

Taking the above words
of Emerson as an inspirational point of departure, Isaac Asimov
deftly weaves a chilling tale of the planet Lagash. Lighted by six
suns, its history of civilization displays an ominous cyclic
character shrouded in mystery.

Various successive cultures have been consumed by fire at the apex of their greatness
without a hint as to the cause; not a shred of concrete evidence has
ever been left behind to account for the past conflagrations;
neither a meaningful recollection nor a legacy of remembrance. Only
the esoteric "myth of the Stars" contained in the Book of
Revelations belonging to a group known as the Cultists offers a
puzzling but ridiculed clue. ". . . Every two thousand and fifty
years Lagash entered a huge cave, so that all the suns disappeared,
and there came total darkness allover the world! And
then . . . things called Stars appeared, which robbed men of their
souls and left them unreasoning brutes, so that they destroyed the
civilization they themselves had built up. (p. 9)"

The deadly riddle seems to have no answer until, almost by accident, the secret of
Lagash's recurring disasters fatefully unfolds step by step towards
a climactic disclosure. It all starts when several astronomers
apply themselves to the Theory of Universal Gravitation. They
discover, much to their chagrin, that the motions of Lagash about
its primary sun−Alpha−and the orbit observed cannot be accounted
for by standard gravitational computations and known perturbation
factors. Years pass as theory upon theory fails to solve the
enigma. At last, with no other recourse, the head of the Cultists
is called in for consultation and provides some informative
assistance. The meeting of science and theology produces a new line
of scientific reasoning and an unanticipated and shattering
postulation−A non-luminous planetary body akin to Lagash and
rotating around it could also exist yet be invisible amidst the
eternal blaze of sunlight. This satellite would not only account
for the deviations of Lagash's theoretical orbit but would
eventually get in the way of a sun.

Calculations are quickly made which indicate "that the eclipse Will occur only when
the arrangement of the suns is such that Beta [one of the suns] is
alone in its hemisphere and at maximum distance. The eclipse that
results, with the moon seven times the apparent diameter of Beta,
covers all of Lagash and lasts well over half a day, so that no spot
on the planet escapes the effects. That eclipse comes once every
twothousand and forty-nine years. (p- 1 1 ) "

A reporter named Theremon learns of this unusual phenomenon dur­ing an interview with
Sheerin, a psychologist attached to a group of astronomers very much
concerned with the entire matter. Within the confines of a
fortress-like Observatory, these scientists anxiously await the
occultation of Beta. Much trepidation, excitement, and tension
permeates the air. As it happens, the moment of eclipse is once
again rapidly approaching upon Lagash and the astronomers are
feverishly preparing to photograph the unknown. In the meantime,
many people have been sent to a place of refuge called the Hideout
along with certain records for the future.

Sheerin explains to the visiting Theremon the basic reason for the present apprehension
of his colleagues and himself. "There is a psy­chological term for
mankind's instinctive fear of the absence of light. We call it
'claustrophobia,' because the lack of light is always tied up with
enclosed places, so that fear of one is fear of the other ...
Imagine Darkness−everywhere. No light, as far as you can see.
The houses, the trees, the fields, the earth, the sky−black! And
Stars thrown in, for all I know−whatever they are. Can you
conceive it? . . . You can't conceive that. Your brain wasn't built
for the conception any more than it was built for the conception of
infinity or of eternity. You can only talk about it. A fraction of
the reality upsets you, and when the real thing comes, your brain is
going to be presented with the phenomenon outside its limits of
comprehension. You will go mad, completely and permanently! (pp.
14-15)"

Theremon apparently
fails to grasp the full import of Sheerin's state­ment and the point
has to be angrily driven home. "If you were in Darkness, what would
you want more than anything else; what would it be that every
instinct would call for? Light, damn you, light! . . . And
how would you get light? . . . You burn something . . . It gives off
light and people know that . . . and wood isn't handy−so they'll
burn whatever is nearest. They'll have their light−and every
center habitation goes up in flames! (pp. 15-16)"

The conversation is abruptly ended as a series of incidents stirs the Observatory. An
intruder Cultist−Latimer 25−is seized before he can lay damaging
hands on the astro-cameras. He accuses Aton, the head of the
Observatory, of undermining religious faith by presenting scientific
backing for Cultist beliefs. "You made of the Darkness and of the
Stars a natural phenomenon and removed all its real significance.
That was blasphemy." The altercation is cut short as Beta begins to
shrink before the encroaching blackness and the unnerved scientists
struggle frantically to maintain their composure in order to take
pictures of the eclipse.

Latimer commences to intone from the Book of Revelations (p. 23) first in the
present and then in an old-cycle tongue. Verse after verse signals
a portent of doom. Theremon wonders how the Cultists "manage to
keep the Book of Revelations going from cycle to cycle, and
how on Lagash did it get written in the first place?" Sheerin
replies that the method of passing on the Book of Revelations
is unimportant since "the book can't help but be a mass of
distortion, even if it is based on fact. Naturally, the book was
based, in the first place, on the testimony those least qualified to
serve as historians; that is children and morons; and was probably
edited and re-edited through the cycles. (p. 25)"

At this point, an
associate of Sheerin, Beenay, interjects his own ideas about what
the Stars might be. He suggests the existence of other suns so
distant that "they'd appear small, like so many marbles" once
"there'd be no real sunlight to drown them out . . of course
the Cultists talk of millions of Stars, but that's probably
exaggeration. There just isn't place in the universe you could put
a million suns−unless they touch one another. (p. 29)"

Outside the Observatory, Beta continues to disappear within the enveloping
Darkness. Slowly but surely the last light of Lagash dwindles.
Panic ensues. Egged on by the trauma of the eclipse and the
uncontrollable zeal of the Cultists, the citizens of Lagash storm
the Observatory in desperation.

Within the
Observatory, the scientists have barred the doors and lit some
torches. The cameras are manned. Then, without warning, Latimer
makes one final bid to impede the photographing and is blocked by
Theremon who wrestles him to the floor. Suddenly, the last rays of
sunlight are cut off; a choking gasp is heard from Beenay, an
hysterical giggle from Sheerin; beneath Theremon, Latimer's body
goes limp as his eyes recede into blankness and a bubble of froth
forms upon his lips.

"With the slow
fascination of fear," Theremon struggles to raise himself and turns
"his eyes toward the blood-curdling blackness of the window. Through it
shone the Stars! Not Earth's feeble thirty-six hundred Stars visible to
the eye; Lagash was in the center of a giant cluster. Thirty thousand
mighty suns shone down in a soul-searing splendor that was more
frighteningly cold in its awful indifference than the bitter wind that
shivered across the cold, horribly bleak world. (p. 35)"

Theremon staggers "to his
feet, his throat constricting him to breathlessness, all the muscles of
his body writhing in an intensity of terror and sheer fear beyond
bearing. He was going mad and knew it, and somewhere deep inside a bit
of sanity was screaming, struggling to fight off the hopeless flood of
black terror . . . 'Light!' he screamed." (p. 35)

Elsewhere in the confines
of the Observatory, a babbling and incoher­ent Aton whimpers "horribly
like a terribly frightened child. 'Stars−all the Stars−we didn't
know at all. We didn't know anything. We thought six stars in a
universe is something the Stars didn't notice is Darkness forever and
ever and ever and the walls are breaking in and we didn't know we
couldn't know and anything' --" (pp. 35-36)

As Aton's pitiful
soliloquy runs its course, a torch is overturned and extinguished. "In
the instant, the awful splendor of the indifferent Stars leaped nearer
to them."

"On the horizon outside
the window, in the direction of Saro City, a crimson glow began growing,
strengthening in brightness, that was not the glow of a sun.

3. Cf' A. Clarke,
"If I Forget Thee, Oh Earth . . . . in The Nine Billion Names of Godof (Harbrace Paperbound Library: N. Y., 1967), pp. 235-240: also
A. Clarke, Against the Fall of Night (Gnome Press: N. Y., 1953)
and rewritten as The City and the Stars (N. Y., 1956).
Obviously conjectural liberties are being exercised here in the extreme
since motivational analysis is being applied to a purely fictional
situation. The realistic plausibility of events does allow
extrapolation into reality, however, thereby lending considerable
justification for the analysis.

4. I. Asimov,
"Nightfall," first appearance in Astounding Science Fiction,
Sept. 1941; also in Nightfall and other Stories by Asimov
(Doubleday: Garden City, 1969), pp. 2-36. "Nightfall" was chosen as the
#1 science-fiction short story of all time by the Science Fiction
Writers of America - see The Science Fiction Hall of Fame Vol. 1,
(Doubleday: Garden City, 1970), ed. Robert Silverberg, p. x.